


I'm Still Here, Love

by JustJReally



Series: True Love's Kiss [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (I think this counts as whump? what's the bar for whump?), Angst with a Happy Ending, Cursefic, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Sickfic, Villain Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28643721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJReally/pseuds/JustJReally
Summary: “What do you want me to say?” Jaskier asks. There are tears prickling in his eyes, not from sadness but from pent-up emotion, from his sheer, stupidpowerlessness, and he blinks them back as hard as he can. “That he’s never treated me as anything more than a friend, but my heart is his, it always has been?” It hurts, like a physical thing, a hollow, aching pit at the heart of him, to admit it aloud without hiding it behind lyrics and melody. He keeps talking anyway. “That hecaresabout people, so deeply, and I know how he’d react if I told him, and he wasn’t able to fix anything, and I refuse to put him through that? I won’t do it. Please don’t ask me to.”***Jaskier gets cursed, the sort of "True Love's Kiss will save you from a painful death" deal he'd have found charming in a ballad but not so much when it's his life on the line.Now, if only Jaskier could convince Geralt that admitting who he loves will only hurt the both of them.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: True Love's Kiss [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1979245
Comments: 16
Kudos: 384





	I'm Still Here, Love

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to notasmalltuba and [Disneygirl97](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Disneygirl97/pseuds/Disneygirl97) for beta-ing, I could not have done this without you.
> 
> This is the Jaskier POV of You'll be the Death of Me, but it should work as a standalone. However, if you want the full picture of "two idiots misunderstand each other at literally every possible turn," I'd suggest reading both.
> 
> On a more serious note, the "Near Death Experience" aspect got a bit more intense in this one, seeings as it's Jaskier doing the near-dying, so be forewarned.

After all these years, Jaskier can tell the difference between Geralt taking longer than usual on a contract, and _Geralt taking longer than usual on a contract_ , and he’s been standing by the road with Roach for long enough that he’s getting worried. This is the too-long version of ‘longer than usual,’ the version that, in the past, has meant he’s been poisoned or concussed or has something’s talons embedded in his gut. Which means that it’s Jaskier’s job to go looking for him and make sure all of his organs are still inside him.

“If he gets back before me, you tell him to stop worrying me like this,” he tells Roach, before plunging into the forest in the same direction Geralt went, far too long ago.

This is a fine plan. He’ll just go in this direction, and if he doesn’t find anything, he’ll turn and head back the way he came, and he will not get lost. He will _not_ , he tells himself, firmly, even though the trees really are very dense and the little bit of light coming in through the leaves casts everything around him in half-shadows that make each individual tree look very much like the trees next to it.

Before he can think better of his plan, he comes across a tree with huge burns down one side of it, which is not only a nice identifying feature, it also would seem to indicate that he’s going in the right direction. There’s another burned tree a few feet away from it, and a whole patch of trees that have been blown clear out of the ground not far from that.

And before he can think better of the plan “follow the magical destruction until you find the people responsible for it,” he hears the voice.

Presumably, it’s the mage Geralt had been looking for, unless someone else in this forest is also fighting a witcher while spouting off some _stupid shit_ about witchers being emotionless monsters. Jaskier walks faster. Geralt has this handled, hopefully, but there are several choice phrases that could be applied to this man which he would _love_ a chance to use-

“Now. Die,” the mage says, and Jaskier’s blood runs cold. He breaks into a run, heading toward the voice, ignoring the next words out of the mage’s mouth, and stumbles into a small clearing a few moments later. He’s greeted with the sight of the mage looming over Geralt, a sickeningly satisfied smile on his face. Not enough seems to have gone wrong for the mage to look that satisfied- sure, Geralt’s on one knee on the ground, but-

Jaskier gives the scene another look and realizes Geralt’s in that awkward position because he’s trapped there, his lower leg pinned under a rock. At the same time, the mage speaks, his voice reverberating oddly, a greenish-black energy building around his hands. “Unless the one you love returns your feelings, and is willing to kiss you, you will die.”

The sheer, overpowering _fury_ that this man would try to hurt Geralt, _his_ Geralt, overtakes any other conscious thought. “What are you doing to him,” Jaskier spits, taking another step into the clearing. He _will_ get between this man and Geralt. He _will_ stop him.

He does. The mage turns toward Jaskier, unthinkingly flicking one hand at him like he’s trying to swat away an insect. The swampy-looking energy flies from his hands, missing Geralt entirely, which is such a relief it leaves Jaskier giddy.

Then the swamp-curse strikes him directly in the chest.

It’s excruciating. It feels like a thousand tiny, barbed thorns have erupted in his lungs and spread outward through the rest of his torso. He staggers, just barely managing to catch himself on a tree, as the world goes dim around the edges. For a moment, the pain is all he’s aware of, he’s being chewed apart from the inside, there’s a terrible, crushing pressure in his chest, his lungs are burning-

He manages to heave a single, gasping breath. His vision begins to clear. The pain eases, too, as he chokes air back into his lungs, even if it doesn’t vanish entirely. It’s less pain, really, and more pressure, as though the curse were a physical thing, hooking into him and tugging him in a specific direction.

A _very_ specific direction, he realizes, as he looks up to find Geralt, kneeling on the ground next to one very dead mage and staring at him furiously. It doesn’t take much thought to put together the phrasing of the curse, _unless the one you love returns your feelings_ , with that sensation. The _you will die_ is equally clear, and for a moment, the pain of the curse is overwhelmed by a wave of terror, like he’s been submerged in a half-frozen pond, so cold it steals his breath.

“Geralt?” he asks, his voice wobbling. There are other things he wants to say, among them ‘help’ and ‘can you fix this’ and ‘dear gods man the look on your face is not reassuring,’ but he doesn’t think he’ll be able to say them with any amount of dignity.

“He cursed you,” Geralt says flatly. His bedside manner is truly unparalleled.

It says something about Jaskier that this inspires fondness and exasperation in equal measure. “No, really. Here I thought this was normal,” he says, because even in the worst of situations, the love language of ‘sarcasm’ has yet to fail him. He finds himself sliding down the tree a little as he speaks, not so much from the pain, which is present and deeply annoying but nowhere near as debilitating as it had been a few moments ago, as from the fact that he’s suddenly achy and exhausted, like he’s been running up a mountain for three days straight.

“Fuck,” Geralt says, pulling himself to his feet with a grimace. 

That reaction undermines any progress Jaskier had made at ignoring how scared he is; if _Geralt,_ and his century or so of experience with curses and monsters, thinks the situation is bad, then Jaskier is inclined to believe him. And maybe panic. Just a bit.

“Ohhhh that does not sound good,” he says, pushing himself off of the tree. The momentum lets him stumble haltingly toward Geralt, despite how wobbly his legs feel. “Geralt, if I'm going to die-”

Jaskier does not know how he plans to end that sentence, with a dramatic confession of love or a plea to burn his notebooks without reading them, but he’s saved from having to figure that out by Geralt, who offers a blunt, “You're not going to die.” Which might be reassuring if witchers had the power to change the future by saying things, but Jaskier doesn’t think they do. “It's the same curse he was trying to kill me with-”

“-yes, exactly-” Jaskier cuts in, equally desperate to make sure Geralt understands what a bad situation he’s in, and desperate for Geralt not to realize why, specifically, this is such a bad situation.

“It'll be easy to fix,” Geralt finishes.

Which is rich, really, coming from the non-cursed one, who isn’t liable to drop dead at any minute. “How will this be easy to -” Jaskier begins, before the statement fully catches up with him. Geralt’s voice had warmed slightly as he was speaking, and the look he’s giving Jaskier now is-

Well.

It’s openly fond, the sort of expression Jaskier was used to seeing once or twice a month, the one that always leaves him feeling warm and vaguely lightheaded. Geralt’s not the most expressive person in existence, Jaskier knows, not by a long shot, and he treasures being the recipient of those looks more than anything; Geralt’s usual reticence makes them that much more meaningful. But the fact that Geralt is looking at him like that now, after telling him the curse will be easy to fix- “Do you know how to fix it?” Jaskier asks, tentatively, stressing the ‘know’ and hoping Geralt will catch on to his double meaning.

“Of course,” Geralt says. He crosses the clearing to Jaskier in two determined steps (which shouldn’t be as swoon-inducing as it is, really, it is not a large clearing), and loops one arm around his waist, pulling him close (which absolutely is swoon-inducing and rightfully deserves to be). Jaskier can’t stop the rather un-romantic surprised noise that slips past his lips, but he leans into Geralt, letting his eyes close, waiting for the gentle press of Geralt’s lips on his own.

Geralt takes another step, dragging Jaskier along with him and causing him to stumble over his own feet. The only thing that keeps him from an unfortunate meeting with the ground is Geralt’s arm, still firmly tucked around his waist.

Which is-

Of course, Geralt didn’t mean- that- when he said he knew how to fix the curse. Of course he didn’t.

It still stings.

It takes a few minutes for Jaskier to wrestle through that mess of disappointment and embarrassment, during which they cover a good bit of ground, given the fact that Geralt is setting a pace that does not take into account his own injured leg, and only barely takes into account that Jaskier is very cursed.

It takes a few minutes more for him to realize that Geralt must have some other plan to fix this, and think to ask, "Where are we going?"

“You tell me,” Geralt says. Jaskier throws him an annoyed look. He is a _bard_ , not some sort of _curse expert._ “Are you still seeing that Countess?”

“Not for almost a year now,” Jaskier says, confused. “Shows how much you listen to me,” he adds, in a mutter that would probably still be audible to human ears and is definitely still audible to witcher ones. It’s petty, he knows, but if you haven’t earned a little pettiness when you’ve been cursed and your best friend is asking unhelpful (and frankly insulting) questions, when _have_ you earned it?

“Then who do we need to find?”

Jaskier stops dead. Geralt stops moving a second later, his arm tugging at Jaskier’s waist without enough momentum to move him. “You want to find the person I’m in love with and get them to kiss me,” Jaskier says, figuring out Geralt’s intention as he speaks. “That’s your plan.” He feels unmoored; he hadn’t realized how firmly he’d been counting on Geralt having a plan until the idea got ripped out from under his feet. To be fair, he supposes, this is A Plan, it’s just a plan that is doomed to failure, not to mention that it leaves Jaskier with the spectacular options of “dying” and “confessing his doomed feelings to Geralt and _then_ dying.”

“Yes,” Geralt says, as though it were obvious. “There must be someone. The woman from the inn back in town? You told me she was the love of your life and you could write ballads just about the color of her eyes on the way here.”

“Ariadna. She did have lovely eyes,” Jaskier muses. They were beautiful, a bright green that reminded him of algae on a pond- wait, no, not that, that’s a terrible metaphor. Gemstones? Grass? Whatever they’d reminded him of, the fact remains: he knows he’s not in curse-breaking-True-Love with the woman he’d fallen into bed with on a mutual whim, no matter how her eyes had sparkled when she made a particularly terrible joke.

If he’s in curse-breaking-True-Love with anyone, it’s the man currently giving him a confused glower and tugging him forward by the waist, rather ineffectively, Jaskier might add; he knows Geralt would have no trouble moving him if he really wanted to, but instead he’s just- pulling at him, a little, like he hopes Jaskier will get the hint. Even so, Jaskier digs in his heels, more to make a point than anything else. “It’s not going to work,” he insists.

Geralt lets go of him entirely, whirling on him with a glare that reminds Jaskier of a disgruntled puppy. “Why the fuck wouldn’t it?”

“You heard the curse! It has to be the one I love. True Love’s Kiss, and all that.”

“That’s poetic nonsense.”

 _Rude,_ Jaskier thinks, but he doesn’t say anything. In other circumstances, he might have, but the curse is digging into him again now that Geralt has stepped away, making itself that much harder to ignore. He wraps his arms around himself, hoping that might ease the persistent ache in his sternum.

“You just have to kiss someone you love, who loves you in return,” Geralt continues. “If not her, there must be someone-”

Jaskier wishes, a little desperately, that he could be comforted by that, but the only reply he can offer is, “It won’t _work_.”

“Why are you so sure?” Geralt growls.

“Because I know who it is!” The words slip from Jaskier’s lips by mistake, buoyed a complicated mess of emotion: frustration at Geralt for pushing the issue, frustration with himself for wishing this could be wrapped up as simply as Geralt thinks it can, the heartache of having Geralt in front of him, asking him to confess his love, with no idea that that’s what he’s asking for. “And even if I didn’t,” he adds, hunching over a little as the curse gives a painful tug towards Geralt, “I can feel the curse trying to drag me to him, like someone stuck a grappling hook in my chest and started yanking on it.”

“So we go find him, then. Stop making this difficult.”

Whether it’s the way Geralt’s voice has gone gruff, almost concerned, despite the blunt nature of the words themselves, or the fact that he’s holding out a cautious arm toward Jaskier like Jaskier is a lady in a legend about knights and chivalry, Jaskier considers it for a moment. He could tell Geralt, and Geralt could kiss him, and they’d have an answer one way or another. If it doesn’t work, they can find some other way to solve this, and put the matter of Jaskier’s unrequited love to rest. But when Jaskier tries to let that scenario play out in his mind, all he can imagine is how torturous it would be to spend the next- days? weeks?- with Geralt, while slowly dying, Geralt knowing how he feels. Geralt wouldn’t be cruel about it, but Jaskier doesn’t think he can take awkward pity, or the ensuing crushing discomfort, not right now. And he can’t imagine how that would play out _after_ the curse is lifted, or worse, if they don’t manage to lift it-

“No,” Jaskier says, trying to sound self-assured, if only for Geralt’s sake.

“No?” Jaskier’s fairly certain Geralt could not look more confused if he actually had gone and confessed his love.

“No,” Jaskier says, again. “I’m not telling you who he is, we break the curse another way. I’m still on my feet,” he continues, dropping his arms and straightening up in order to prove his point. The ache sharpens, for a moment, but it’s still bearable. “It doesn’t hurt, much, so it can’t be that bad a curse; we find the nearest healer or mage, a different mage, I guess, and we get them to fix it.” It’s a pretty good plan, he thinks, considering he came up with it in the seconds between refusing Geralt’s plan and saying it out loud. It seems like the logical thing to do to break a curse.

For a moment he thinks Geralt is going to argue, but instead he wraps an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders and says, “Yes, fine, we find a mage. Now _move_ ,” and with that, begins hustling him along again.

With that settled, it becomes much easier to appreciate the fact that Geralt is fully focused on fixing this. He may have started off going about it in the worst possible way (through, Jaskier will admit, no fault of his own), but he’s _trying_. He _cares_. He’s supporting a good portion of Jaskier’s weight even though he himself is limping, practically picking him up whenever the ground gets rough, and he’s making a dedicated effort to make sure Jaskier doesn’t get slapped in the face by various tree branches and brambles.

It’s hard to stop the quiet voice in Jaskier’s head from singing, _he cares he cares he cares_ , even though he knows Geralt would do this for anyone. He would do this much and more for the sake of the man who tried to ward him off with a rabbit’s foot yesterday, because he cares about people, because he’s remarkably selfless all things considered.

That doesn’t stop him from teasing Geralt once they get back to the road and Geralt refuses to let him walk on his own, helping him up onto Roach instead. There are several things in this friendship that Jaskier will never let Geralt live down, and their first meeting is one of them.

(Even if that first meeting is also half the reason Jaskier is so damn hopelessly gone on him now.)

Geralt’s only response is to roll his eyes and start limping toward the village. “Nope,” Jaskier says, because Geralt’s not allowed to be a hypocrite about this, not today, “Get up here, you’re not walking on that leg.” Geralt opens his mouth to protest and Jaskier adds, singsong, “We’re going to move slower if you’re limping.”

Geralt makes a grumpy face at him, but he gets up onto Roach, immediately proving why he shouldn’t have walked the rest of the way when he tries sit in front of Jaskier with a move that was definitely not part of the nobility-approved horseback training that Jaskier received, and very nearly ends up in a heap on the road. Jaskier steadies him, because he is a good friend, and says, “Told you,” because he is a good friend.

He’s not sure if the closeness is actually making him feel better, because the curse has nothing to tug him towards, or if he feels better just being near Geralt, but when they’ve put the forest some distance behind them he’s beginning to feel… alright. He starts singing a little, first a ballad that’s been stuck in his head for most of the day, then a song he’s almost finished with, would be finished with if he could just figure out how he wants the last line to go.

He’s tried enough variations on the line that he’s considering giving up on his career as a bard entirely, maybe going into painting or beekeeping, when Geralt quietly says, “Sounds nice.”

Jaskier gives the back of his head a long, suspicious stare. “That is the same line you were complaining about three hours ago,” he says, distilling his suspicion even more pointedly into his tone. “You called it trite.” Either Geralt is messing with him, or he’s going to drop dead any second now and Geralt is trying to make his last moments happy ones.

“Your voice,” Geralt says, haltingly. “Sounds nice.”

Jaskier’s been given glowing, effusive reviews of his performances by fellow musicians and nobles and none of them, none of them compared to those two words. Those either smacked of jealousy or flattery, whereas this is entirely sincere. And beyond the sincerity, the simple fact that it’s coming from Geralt, when Jaskier’s composed ballads and made a fool of himself, anything to get even a smile out of him, makes it all the more meaningful.

“Why thank you,” he says, glad of the fact that Geralt can’t see his face, so he doesn’t have to hide his blush. He can’t do anything about how pleased he sounds, but he isn’t sure he’d want to.

Maybe he could ask Geralt to kiss him. He’s not hoping for Geralt to love him (that’s a lie, he is, and the hope grows stronger with every little gesture and compliment, every time they wind up tangled together in a too-small bed, and sometimes he thinks maybe he’s not hoping in vain, but he’s a _bard,_ making up signs of romance is his _job_ , he can’t go around projecting his feelings onto Geralt and then making it Geralt’s problem-)

The point is. Geralt cares for him, he knows. Maybe the kiss without the returned love will be enough, taking that into account.

( ~~Maybe Geralt loves him.~~ )

It’s worth a try, at least. He can figure out a way to spin the request, or he can lie through his teeth; Geralt doesn’t need to find out how he really feels.

It’s worth a try.

That idea keeps him preoccupied until they’ve reached the middle of the village; he’s only fully pulled from his thoughts when Geralt dismounts, telling him to go back to the inn while he speaks to the alderman.

“I should come with you, then. Make sure you get paid fairly,” Jaskier says. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve broken that pattern, but whenever they do, one or both of them had a reason for it. He’s not sure what reason Geralt would have for breaking the pattern now, but his instincts tell him he won’t like it.

“No, you should-” Geralt says, the frustration in his tone bleeding away the second Jaskier pulls himself up to argue about what he should and should not do. “I’ll ask the alderman about mages in the area, you see if any old kiss will break the curse.” Jaskier starts to tell him that he has a new plan, still entirely unsure of how he’s going to spin this, but willing to make it up as he goes.

Geralt talks over him. “It’s at least worth a try.” His voice cracks midway through the sentence; he sounds-

He sounds _afraid_.

Jaskier’s not sure he’s ever heard him sound like that before. It’s enough to solidify his decision to tell Geralt- he needs to offer him some reassurance, even if it comes in the form of a half-thought-out plan that’s likely to fail.

“Alright,” he agrees, figuring he’ll start with the reassurances there.

Geralt’s hovering as he dismounts, which is a new experience, but makes it easy for Jaskier to throw his arms around Geralt’s shoulders before he can change his mind. Geralt stumbles a little, giving Jaskier enough time to think _shit, his leg_ , and then Geralt’s wrapped his arm around his waist, supporting him, and Jaskier fully melts. He takes a moment to appreciate being held, the way he’s pressed securely up against Geralt’s armor and the slight smell of sweat and blood, which is objectively unpleasant but also a smell that’s been coded into his mind as “Geralt-home-safety.” It doesn’t entirely balance out his nerves over what he’s about to do, or even his nerves over how _close_ they’re standing, he can feel the warmth of Geralt’s arm against his waist- but then Geralt wraps his other arm around his shoulders, pulling him fully into an embrace, as though they were lovers, and it feels _right_.

“You said any old kiss,” Jaskier says, staring fixedly at the base of Geralt’s throat. He can’t meet his eyes, not with the hope that’s burning inside his chest like a sun, it would be far too painful. “But- if it’s someone I care about, then maybe-”

“Yeah,” Geralt says. His voice is warm and soft and, dare Jaskier even think it, loving. “If you both care about each other, there’s a good chance it will work. That mage didn’t seem all that competent to me.”

 _It’s you, Geralt. It’s always been you._ The words are on the top of Jaskier’s tongue when Geralt takes a step back, leaving Jaskier cold, one hand impersonally on his shoulder. “Go find her. You’ll be alright,” he says.

It’s like being hit with the curse again, like falling into thin air when he’d expected firm ground beneath him. That rejection would have been enough in and of itself, but it’s clear from the look on Geralt’s face that he thinks he’s helping, and somehow that makes it worse. “I’ll see you back at the inn,” Jaskier croaks, and flees before he can have his heart smashed further.

Walking away from Geralt is a bit like walking into a strong wind; the curse wants him to turn around, is doing its best to tug him back to Geralt’s side. It doesn’t have any physical presence, though; it’s simply a pressure, just this side of painful. Even so, Jaskier takes his time getting back to the inn. First, because he needs to get his emotions back under control, to very firmly tell his heart to stop breaking over a rejection that barely deserves the word, and to remind himself that _caring for_ and _loving_ someone are two very different things. Second, because he needs to figure out how the hell to ask a woman he barely knows if she’d mind trying to give him a True Love’s Kiss, he might die if it doesn’t work no pressure.

By the time he gets back to the inn, he’s mostly just hoping that Ariadna won’t be there, and he’ll have more time to convince Geralt that this is a _terrible_ plan and they should do _literally anything else._ It’s not an irrational hope, either- from what she’d said the night before, the inn may be a family business but she’s the one running it in all but name, so it would be perfectly reasonable for her to be- elsewhere. Doing whatever people who run inns do.

So of course, she’s standing behind the bar when he walks in, staring at a keg like it just murdered her entire family. She shoves her curls out of her face, with enough force that suggests she’s having some sort of crisis, so Jaskier thinks he’ll be forgiven if he just slips past her, for now-

He leaves the door to swing shut behind him, and he’s halfway to the stairs when it slams with an unduly loud bang. Ariadna turns her glare on the door, but her expression lightens when she notices Jaskier. “You’re back!” she says, leaning on the bar. “Is he dead? The mage?”

Jaskier nods. “Geralt killed him.” His voice sounds unsettlingly flat. He wants to be praising Geralt’s heroics right now, like he ordinarily would, but cheer and enthusiasm are currently beyond him.

Ariadna slums forward against the bar with a shaky laugh. “Thank Melitele,” she says, swiping a hand over her eyes. “Thank- thank _you_ , and your witcher. If you need the room for another night, or a meal, just ask. No charge.”

“The room would be lovely,” Jaskier says. His voice sounds- less flat, this time, if nothing else, but something about his tone must worry her.

“If he’s dead, what’s wrong, then?” she asks, slowly, like she’s bracing herself for a punch in the stomach.

“Nothing! Or at least, nothing that affects you- really- well it affects you but only in that- Can we talk?” he asks.

Ariadna gives him a _look_. Jaskier may not have known her for long enough to have a mental “frown-to-words” translator, the way he does with Geralt, but he’s narrowed this look down to several possibilities, none of them flattering. “Can it wait? I was planning to go tell my family the mage is dead. I thought they might like to know,” she adds, drily, “Because he’s been slowly picking my neighbors off on some sort of power trip. For months now.”

“Maybe?” Jaskier says guiltily, and then immediately curses himself for not taking the out when it was offered to him. “I mean, yes. Yes it can wait. Go see your family.”

He starts for the stairs a second time, but he’s moving more stiffly than normal and he must not be hiding it well, because Ariadna draws in a horrified breath as he passes the bar, and the next thing he knows she’s standing in front of him, blocking his path to the stairs.

“He cursed you.” It’s not a question.

“Well, technically he _meant_ to curse Geralt.”

“That _fucker_ ,” she responds, half-herding Jaskier towards the stairs as she speaks, a determined set to her jaw. The difference from the night before- both of them laughing as she’d dragged him back to her room- is so stark that it gives Jaskier the sense that he’s just walked over his own grave.

When they reach his room, Ariadna ushers Jaskier in before her, giving him just enough time to look at his belongings strewn on every available surface and think, _I should have cleaned_. She leans against the door as she closes it, taking a long, steadying breath. When she speaks, she’s composed. “What do you need? I’ll do what I can, but-”

Jaskier realizes he’s done enough to draw this out. “Well that’s the thing, really, he gave me- or Geralt, I guess- an escape clause. If I kiss my One True Love I break the curse,” he says, pacing in a wide loop around the room as he speaks, avoiding the clothing strewn across the floor with a precision that comes from years of practice. “Which, you know, very lovely, very poetic, _love_ the romantic ballad turn my life has taken, aside from the fact that my True Love thinks _you’re_ my True Love. Which is why I’m monologuing to you right now.” He punctuates the statement with a sweep of his arm. “Well, actually I’m monologuing to you right now because he told me to go ask you about this, and I would have been perfectly willing to leave well enough alone but the man can smell lies, or something, so that’s not worth it, and I guess even if he couldn’t there’s a chance he could be right about the whole ‘it doesn’t have to be your True Love’ thing, in which case I guess it really is worth asking you, because I would rather not drop dead, but anyway-

“Could you kiss me?” he finishes, making an abrupt turn midway through his loop, so he’s directing the question at Adriana rather than the wall. She makes a face remarkably similar to the look most people give him after he’s tried to drunkenly explain the plots of his favorite song cycles.

After three or so false starts, she says, “Come again?”

“Either I kiss my True Love or I die,” Jaskier says, slightly slower this time.

“And you think that’s me?” she asks, taking a half step backwards, her eyes going wide.

“Well,” Jaskier says, uncomfortably, “No.”

“Oh thank the gods.” She gives him a brief, stricken look, remarkably similar to the face he’s probably making at her, and after a moment of perfect silence they both start laughing. Jaskier’s doubled over like that’s the funniest joke he’s ever heard- which it isn’t- but it’s a relief to laugh at _something_ ; it eases the tension he’s been carrying since Geralt went haring off into the woods all willy-nilly. He’d be embarrassed by the fact that, at this point, his reaction probably counts as ‘mild hysterics,’ were it not for the fact that Ariadna seems to be having a similar reaction.

“I was- I was so afraid you were going to-” she sputters, still laughing. “ _Propose_ or something- and then I’d have to- what would I even _say_ -” she dissolves into laughter again. “Sorry, I only marry men I’ve known for _two_ days, you’re a few hours short?” She looks ready to continue in that vein, possibly for some time, but her expression sobers abruptly and she asks, “So why ask me to kiss you?”

“Geralt thinks a Kiss of-” Jaskier waves a hand vaguely- “Mutual Affection might be enough to break the curse. Which seems dubious at best, but worth a try-”

“But Geralt- he’s the witcher you came here with, isn’t he?” Ariadna cuts in, looking, if possible, even more confused than she had initially. “He’s the one you-”

“…he’s the one I told you about.” The statement doesn’t really begin to cover ‘talked about at such length, in such affectionate terms, that you asked me if I was cheating on him with you,’ but it’s close enough. 

“So why didn’t you-”

It’s a genuine question, Jaskier doesn’t notice anything but confusion and a touching amount of concern in her features, but he still can’t bear to hear her finish that sentence. “He said I should go to you,” he says, bitterly.

“Oh, darling,” Ariadna replies, in the melancholy tone of someone who’s experienced a similar heartbreak. She closes the distance between them and takes his hand. “I’ll try, but-”

“I know,” Jaskier says, more than grateful for the attempt. “Thank you.”

With that, Adriana presses up on her tiptoes to kiss him. He closes his eyes, expecting nothing more than a kiss.

What he gets instead is a surge of pain that locks him into place. If the curse had initially felt like tiny thorns digging at him, the thorns reappear, lengthen an inch, and grow barbs all at once, blooming outward from the center of his chest, digging into his lungs, twining around his ribs, sapping away his strength. The world narrows down to that pain; he barely notices when Ariadna steps back, although her dubious tone as she says, “Did it work?” cuts through the haze.

“No,” he manages to wheeze. He staggers and doubles over, clutching his chest. “No, I think that made it worse, actually. Ohfuck.” His legs give out from under him.

“Fuck,” Ariadna echoes, bending over to offer him a hand, “That’s- shit, are you okay?” The pain’s receding again, slower than it had the first time, but for a moment he thinks he can say ‘yes’ and be telling the truth. Then he reaches for her hand, and realizes just how tired he suddenly feels, achy and feverish and exhausted. The world swims a bit as he manages to sit more or less upright, and he’s suddenly unsure of how to answer.

The door opens, slamming into the wall, saving Jaskier from having to do so. Ariadna lets out an involuntary scream and throws herself between Jaskier and the door, so Jaskier’s view of Geralt, stalking into the room like he thinks someone is being murdered, is somewhat obscured. That doesn’t stop a slightly foolish grin from spreading across Jaskier’s face, but that happens whenever he sees Geralt. A little thing like a curse and obscured vision certainly isn’t going to stop him.

Ariadna must realize who Geralt is, because she relaxes, no longer looking like she’s going to punch him for nearly breaking her door. Jaskier leans around her to wave at Geralt, and ask, “How’d it go?” For all that the curse is worse, his heart is still singing a little song along the lines of “it’s Geralt! Yay!”, which makes the situation at large much more bearable.

“He said our best bet was a village three day’s ride from here,” Geralt says. The thought, _will I even live that long_ , drops into Jaskier’s mind unbidden, chilling him to his core. “We’ll leave in the morning,” Geralt continues, which isn’t wholly _comforting_ but it does provide Jaskier something to cling to, something to pull himself out of a yawning empty endless pit of fear.

“I’m. Going to go now,” Adriana says. She offers Jaskier her arm and helps him to his feet, and they both pretend he isn’t leaning on her as heavily as he is. “Are you doing okay?” she asks him, under her breath.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, not sure if it’s himself or her he’s reassuring.

“I’m sorry- that I couldn’t-”

“No, don’t apologize. I’m sorry for dragging you into this, I should’ve _known_ it wouldn’t work, I need-” he cuts himself off abruptly, glancing over at Geralt, who is still in the room, staring sulkily at the floor, and probably listening to every word of this conversation.

“Ah. That’s unfortunate,” Ariadna says, with a little hiss through her teeth. She offers him a sympathetic grimace, before saying, “Don’t you apologize either, it’s your life on the line. I - I still wish I could have helped.” There’s a tiny flash of guilt across her face as she finishes speaking.

“No, you don’t,” Jaskier says, fondly. “You’d have to have known me for two days, right?”

He leans in to give her a kiss on the cheek, but the curse _pulses_ the second he gets close, and he realizes he probably shouldn’t risk any more kissing. He holds his hand out for a handshake instead, which she gives him, mock-formal, before tangling their fingers together, squeezing his hand once, and leaving the room, with an awkward nod to Geralt that he does not return.

He watches her go, briefly but fervently wishing he could go back to the previous day, when what they had between them was fun and simple and he could forget his eternally unrequited love for his best friend.

And _that_ line of thought is far too melancholy for his current situation, so Jaskier gives himself a mental shake and spins to face Geralt, hands on his hips. “So,” he says, exaggeratedly matter of fact, “That did not work.”

Geralt does not answer. Geralt stares him down for a good minute and a half like he’s a sword, and Geralt’s trying to decide if he needs sharpening. Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him expectantly.

“Hm,” Geralt says. It’s an anticlimactic response to all that staring, but it’s an agreeing sort of ‘Hm,’ and Jaskier’s willing to run with it.

“Glad we’re on the same page. We find a mage, then?”

“That didn’t work because you were right, the curse is directed at someone,” Geralt says, “We should find your lover and have him kiss you. That’s the safer option.”

“He’s not my lover,” Jaskier cuts in, before Geralt can finish speaking, desperate to put this conversation in the ground before it can go anywhere. “I love him, that doesn’t mean it’s mutual,” he continues. He’s trying to be practical about this; as cathartic as a good wallow in the pangs of unrequited love may be, now is not the time, but it’s difficult to keep his voice even, as he wrenches himself back to _practical practical Geralt will be convinced by practical_ long enough say, “It’s really not the safer option.” Geralt glares at him. “It’s not,” Jaskier insists, sounding defeated even to himself. “I know it won’t work.”

“You’re so certain you’re willing to risk your life?”

A thousand things Jaskier could say flicker through his mind, about how this isn’t as much of a risk as Geralt thinks it is, or it’s a risk that he’s willing to take, and he’s making the choice for himself-

But what sticks in his mind is the look on Geralt’s face; for all that his jaw’s clenched up as if in fury, the fear behind his eyes is painfully obvious. And he doesn’t _know yet_. If Jaskier tells him the truth- if Jaskier tells him the truth, and dies anyway- or dies _quicker_ , because apparently this curse is just _that_ exacting about the stipulations- he’ll drown himself in guilt over it, Jaskier knows he will, he’s seen how Geralt reacts to nigh-strangers he couldn’t save. And if Jaskier dies, leaves him with no one to remind him that the entire world is not on his shoulders to save- leaves him alone with that guilt-

It’s worth any risk to Jaskier’s life to keep that future from playing out.

“I know going after him is more of a risk than just _trying to find someone who can break this curse_. Which we can _do_ ,” Jaskier says, as firm as he can manage, wanting to shut down both his imaginings of that future and any risk of that vision becoming a reality. Geralt keeps glaring at him, but he doesn’t argue. When a few seconds pass and he keeps not-arguing, Jaskier relaxes, figuring that’s the closest thing to agreement he’s going to get. “Thank you, though. For caring,” he adds, wanting to make sure Geralt knows he’s grateful for the attempt to help, even if he can _never_ tell Geralt why he won’t accept it. If these are the last few days he’s getting he wants to be sure Geralt knows he cares, be sure one of their last interactions won’t wholly be ‘an argument born of a miscommunication.’

Geralt looks stunned, almost stricken, in response to that, which was the exact opposite of what Jaskier had been going for. And standing here, with him hurting and Geralt hurting and the words _I’m in love with you_ burning on his tongue, liable to slip out at any moment and set any piece of stability in Jaskier’s life on fire, is suddenly unbearable. “I’m going to see if they want me to play again tonight,” Jaskier says, starting for the door. Geralt’s still giving him that haunted look, so he squeezes Geralt’s shoulder as he passes with a murmured, “I’ll be fine.”

Looking into Geralt’s eyes, it’s easy to believe his own half-truth; he manages a tiny, genuine smile. The corner of Geralt’s lips twitch in return. Jaskier thinks, briefly but fervently, _I could kiss him right now_. Instead, he pats his shoulder one more time and leaves the room.

“Do something about your damn leg!” he calls over his shoulder, and is rewarded with a little huff of laughter.

He throws himself into his performance that night, sings all his favorite songs, loses himself in the joy of enrapturing an audience. He’s going to leave people telling stories about this for years, no matter what happens to him, and he’s going to choose his songs so that when they’re telling those stories, they’re talking about Geralt. Even if his life ends up much shorter than expected, he is going to _leave a damn mark_. Midway through his set, he looks up and sees Geralt, hiding in a corner away from the crowd, but here, and listening to him, despite the crowd, and if he could figure out how to capture the delight and gratitude he feels in that moment he’d be the wealthiest bard in the world.

He’s exhausted when he finishes but it is _worth it_. And he wants to keep going, take what he wants from the universe when he still has time, and there are people offering him drinks and compliments and flirtation and it is all very appealing, but what he really, really wants is hiding in the darkest corner of the room, staring broodily at the wall and nursing an ale.

He threads his way through the crowd to Geralt, reminded of the first time he did this, when it was lust and curiosity instead of love and a curse driving his steps, and sits down, leaning up against Geralt with his head on his shoulder. The pain doesn’t ease, even pressed this close to him, but he feels better nonetheless. He stares at the planes of Geralt’s face, half in shadow, half firelit, and wishes he could write something memorializing this, just for himself- although if he were going to do that, he’d choose other, better moments to memorialize, maybe the soft little look he gets when he’s talking to Roach and he doesn’t realize Jaskier’s around to hear him, not now, when he keeps glancing at the crowd like he doesn’t quite trust them not to throw him out of the building with a moment’s notice-

“Are you feeling alright?” Geralt asks, shattering the moment.

“Oh course. I have a curse in me, I’m dandy,” Jaskier grumbles. Moment broken, he steals Geralt’s ale, reveling just a bit in the fact that Geralt lets him take it without protest. When he lets his head drop back onto Geralt’s shoulder, Geralt’s staring at him like he’d taken the offhand gripe for a serious admission of hurt. As touching as it is to see that care written so plainly on his face, Jaskier would rather that look go away, so he’s quick to tell Geralt, “I’m fine,” voice low and soothing as he can manage. “No worse than earlier today, anyway.” It’s not a lie; he’s tired, but the curse has stayed roughly the same level of “unpleasantly painful and annoying” since the failed kiss that afternoon.

“Then what are you doing here?” Geralt asks. Which is a… strange question… for him to be asking; clearly Jaskier is here to steal his drink and bother him. Unless he means existentially, but in that case Jaskier had assumed they’d settled the matter of ‘you’re not getting rid of me that easily’ years ago.

“What, can’t a man want to spend some time with his best friend?” he teases.

“You’ve got an entire crowd you could be charming. Especially after that performance, you could have all the free drinks you want, instead of stealing mine,” Geralt says, stealing Jaskier’s ale back and taking a long drink. “Seems something must be wrong if _you’re_ willing to spend the evening brooding in a corner.”

Jaskier finds himself blushing uncontrollably, like he’s thirteen again and his one classmate with the gorgeous voice just noticed him staring. Of all the ways he could possibly have his feelings found out, this did not even rank. But when Geralt looks back at him, there’s no sign of understanding in his features, only concern. _Well, in for a penny,_ Jaskier thinks. He may not be able to tell Geralt he loves him, not in so many words, but he can at least say, “Nothing’s wrong,” quiet enough that the utter adoration in his tone is easier to hide. “I just wanted to sit with you.”

With that, he snuggles himself into Geralt’s shoulder. The curse might be causing him to lose his wits, but he’s fairly certain Geralt returns the gesture, shifting his arm so that Jaskier can make himself more comfortable. He’s definitely not imagining the fact that, when Geralt drops his arm after flagging down one of the barmaids, it lands loosely around Jaskier, and he leaves it there, warm and safe, allowing Jaskier to curl still closer to him. They stay like that, talking quietly, until Jaskier half-drifts off with his cheek pressed into one of the buckles in Geralt’s armor.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Jaskier says again, close enough to sleep that everything outside the little circle of Geralt’s arm has dimmed. It’s suddenly, vitally important to him that Geralt understand what he means, why he’s here. “I like being with you, you know.”

The first thing he’s aware of when he wakes the next morning is the feeling that the curse is trying to crush his chest in and has twisted up several of his vital organs in the process. The second thing he’s aware of is the too-warm, mildly nauseous sensation of a low-grade fever, and he briefly wonders if that’s part of the curse, or if he’s just lucky enough to be diseased and cursed all at once.

The third thing he’s aware of is Geralt, one hand lingering on his arm from where he’d shaken Jaskier awake, that fear Jaskier had briefly noticed the previous day so etched into his face it might remain there permanently. It’s enough that Jaskier can’t bear to complain about being woken, even though he feels as though he’s barely slept at all.

And besides, even if he’d wanted to complain, Geralt hustles him out of town so quickly that the point “why didn’t you let me sleep in” almost immediately becomes moot.

The pain of the curse doesn’t wane as the day goes on, and any time Jaskier moves too sharply it spikes, thousands of tiny, barbed thorns digging into his organs. Geralt, for his part, is concerned, almost hovering, from the moment he gets out of bed to the moment they set up camp for the night. He won’t even let Jaskier help with said setup, no matter how hard Jaskier tries to convince the both of them that he can help, really, he’s fine.

Jaskier does manage to convince Geralt to let him redo the bandage on his leg; he’s not entirely certain what Geralt did to it, but he does know that Geralt is probably walking on it even though he shouldn’t be. It’s not the most practical of offers, perhaps, given the way his vision goes all swimmy at the edges if he moves his head too fast, so he’s incredibly cautious as he goes, focusing only on the bandaging, not daring to let himself think about anything else.

“You don’t have to-” Geralt says, breaking his concentration.

“I do,” Jaskier replies, the closeness making his voice hoarse. “Please.” _Please, I don’t know how long I have, just let me take care of you while I can. Let me love you while I can_. He doesn’t say any of that, but he meets Geralt’s eyes, trying to figure out how to say something less damning, and Geralt flinches away.

“You shouldn’t do this for me. Not when you’re-”

“When have I ever done things I should?” Jaskier says, all counterfeit cockiness. “I’m fine. Besides-” he goes back to the bandages, tying them off with a dramatic flourish. “Could a cursed person do that?”

The answer to that question is ‘definitely, and Roach could hardly have done worse.’ Even Jaskier, in his semi-delirious state, is aware of this. “That may not be the best example,” he admits, leaning back on his hands. “My point stands, though. Let me help you.” He’s not expecting much of a response, especially now that he’s undermined his own point by being too cursed to tie a bandage properly, but he shall stand by the statement to the bitter end, anyway. Except the sentence comes out wistful, longing, too clearly and obviously in love, and Jaskier’s not sure if that helps his argument or hurts it. Maybe both.

Geralt’s quiet. Jaskier debates the pros and cons of trying to pull his hair back from his face, or possibly redoing that bandage. Before he can decide on anything, Geralt replies, “Let _me_ help _you_ , then.”

“With… songwriting?” _Tying bandages? Convincing you that you deserve to be treated nicely every now and again?_

“With the curse.” _Shit_. “You’re… right,” Geralt says, in a halting tone that makes Jaskier want to wrap him up in a lot of soft blankets and fistfight anyone who’s ever made him think he doesn’t need or deserve help, “So let me help you.”

“How?” Jaskier asks, warily. Even with the fuzz in his head, and the disconcerting awareness that his mind’s working a shade slower than it should be, he’s certain that this conversation is going to backslide into a now-familiar argument. Even so, a tiny part of him hears ‘let me help you’ and begins to crow, _he’s offering to kiss you he is he is he is_.

Geralt is silent for so long that Jaskier thinks, with a mixture of disappointment and relief, that he’s going to drop the matter, but then he says, “How did you meet him? Your- love.”

That is not an offer of a kiss. Still, a stubbornly, stupidly hopeful part of Jaskier’s mind whispers, _he could be trying to figure out if it’s him_. “I saw him across a tavern, and I knew, in that moment, he was the one,” Jaskier says, slowly, watching Geralt’s face for any hint of recognition. “Out of everyone in that room,” he continues, as Geralt remains impassive, “he was the only one who-”

It is at that moment, hovering on the edge of the identifying detail, ‘gave me a coin for my music, and also didn’t throw bread at me,’ that he realizes he’s not so much ‘playing with fire’ as ‘actively setting himself on fire,’ and he manages to stop himself mid-word. “You’re just trying to get me to slip so you can figure out who he is, aren’t you?” he asks, giving Geralt his best disappointed glare.

“No,” Geralt says, avoiding Jaskier’s eyes. He looks uncomfortable at being caught out, nothing more. Nothing in his bearing would indicate that there was a deeper motive for that line of questioning, that he was trying to figure out if it was him or not, and _fuck everything_ , Jaskier cannot have this conversation again.

“I’m not going to tell you who he is!” From Geralt’s perspective, he knows he must shoot from calm to nearly shouting in the space of a breath, but he’s been hovering at the edge of this since yesterday. It’s not his unrequited love in and of itself that’s the problem; that he’s grown used to, figured out how to bleed off by writing longing love songs and occasionally, when Geralt isn’t around to notice and ask what’s wrong, indulging in a pleasant bout of moping.

It’s the slow, creeping, inescapable vise in his chest, (“But this would be so much easier if-” Geralt argues.)

the frustration of Geralt needling at him for an answer, (“I keep telling you, it wouldn’t-”)

the heartache of being forcibly reminded, every time, that Geralt does care about him, just not in the way he wants, (“It’s your life in the balance-”)

the age-old anxiety that Geralt will see through his façade and whatever foundation their friendship had been built on will crumble, (“You don’t know how much this could hurt him-”)

the entirely new terror of the fact that a lost friendship isn’t the worst possible outcome of this situation. (“Who gives a damn? If you would just tell me-”)

“What do you want me to say?” Jaskier asks. There are tears prickling in his eyes, not from sadness but from pent-up emotion, from his sheer, stupid _powerlessness_ , and he blinks them back as hard as he can. “That I’ve been in love with him since I was eighteen, but he’s never shown the slightest interest in me? He’s never treated me as anything more than a friend, but my heart is his, it always has been?” It hurts, like a physical thing, a hollow, aching pit at the heart of him, to admit it aloud without hiding it behind lyrics and melody. He keeps talking anyway. “That he _cares_ about people, so deeply, and I know how he’d react if I told him, and he wasn’t able to fix anything, and I refuse to put him through that? I won’t do it. Please don’t ask me to.”

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Geralt insists. Leave? Lie? Neither plan will get him far, he’s all too aware of how badly the curse has drained him, and lying to Geralt has never been a terribly effective tactic. But he’ll- he’ll do fucking _something_ is what he’ll do; he meant what he said, he will not put Geralt through that, not while there’s breath left in his body. There has to be something he can say, a lie that isn’t a lie, _It’ll take too long to get to Oxenfurt, we should just try to find someone nearby_ , or-

“I won’t,” Geralt says. Jaskier’s swirling thoughts evaporate with those two words, leaving him almost lightheaded with relief. He slumps backwards a little, more at ease than he’s been since the curse. It’s only then that he fully registers the pain in Geralt’s voice as he speaks, and the relief is overwhelmed by guilt.

Silence stretches out between them in a way that makes Jaskier want to start rambling about _anything_ just to fill it, the words jamming together at the back of his throat. Does he thank Geralt? Does he apologize? Does he start talking about lute maintenance? There’s nothing left for him to try to explain, nothing else he can say without revealing too much- “Finding a mage it is, then,” Geralt adds. He’s giving Jaskier a concerned little frown, similar to the face he wore for a week straight the last time Jaskier got himself beat up in a bar fight, and between that and the fact that _he’s_ trying to break the silence, the sweetheart, Jaskier’s brain spontaneously transforms into a pile of dandelion fluff.

Jaskier smiles at him and replies, “Like I’ve been telling you this whole time,” as light and teasing as he can manage. And apparently dandelion fluff is more functional than whatever Jaskier had been working with previously, because he finds that the words he’d been scrambling for moments earlier come to him easily. “Please understand,” he says, hoping that whatever lets Geralt sense lies will also let him know just how wholeheartedly Jaskier means what he’s saying, “there isn’t anyone in this world I trust more than you. I trust that you can find someone to fix this. I don’t want to pursue the other option when I know it will only hurt-” - _you_ , he bites off, just before the word comes out of his mouth, and there’s a strange, sob-like hitch in his voice as he manages to substitute- “him.”

 _Please stop pleading with me to hurt you when you don’t even know it’s you that you’re trying to hurt_ , he doesn’t say.

“That song you were working on,” Geralt says, “Is it- going well?” He sounds so unsure of himself, like he doesn’t realize that nothing, literally nothing in the world, could be a better gift than asking Jaskier about ‘that song he was working on.’ It’s an opportunity to talk about what he loves, yes, but at the same time, he feels unexpectedly, gloriously _seen_. Appreciated. Jaskier sets off talking immediately, tripping over his own words in his haste and excitement to explain how he definitely thinks he could get a running theme going with that second verse, if only the lyrics would work properly-

Not only did Geralt ask him about the song, he’s clearly listening, responding to the conversation, even if his responses are, more often than not, things like “What the fuck is fret gut?” (Jaskier may, at some point in this process, have stopped talking about the song and started talking about lute maintenance, but it’s related, he swears). And Geralt keeps giving Jaskier this soft little smile when he thinks Jaskier’s not looking, and this, _this_ is what Jaskier wants to preserve in song and keep forever. Heroics and monster-slaying are wonderful, but if he could only keep one thing it would be this: Geralt calm and content and firelit.

The one thing that’s ruining the moment is the fact that, for all that he’s practically sitting in the fire, he’s still shivering. He inches just a little closer, to the point where the heat on his skin goes from “too warm” to “actively a bit burning-y”, but he’s still _so cold_ -

“Come here,” Geralt says, and the next thing he knows he’s being hauled backwards by the waist and into Geralt’s lap. He leaves his arm there, lets Jaskier curl into his chest like a human hot water bottle, and while it doesn’t stop him from shivering he’s warm again.

He’s beginning to doze off when Geralt says, “I’m sorry.” The sentence shakes the sleepiness from him more thoroughly than a bucket of ice water dumped over his head would have. “I should have listened, earlier,” Geralt continues, and- of all the places Jaskier had expected that sentence to go, this is not one of them. It’s a welcome one, though, the words soothe some little wounded part of him that had been bristling every time Geralt insisted they break the curse his way. “If I’d known how you felt about your… person, I never would’ve told you to try kissing the woman from the inn. I’d have taken this more seriously from the start. You seem to love so many people so genuinely; I thought this curse would be easy to break. If I’d known you’ve loved this man for this long-”

Jaskier cuts over him, “No, you’re right. I did love them,” feeling again that Geralt’s noticed something about him most people don’t bother to look for, much less admire. He’s perhaps too quick to speak, but he wants to acknowledge that those relationships were important to him, and more than that, he wants to make sure that Geralt understands that he understands that Geralt understands.

Deciding to redirect this conversation before he tries to voice that chain of understands-es out loud, Jaskier adds, “Although before now I didn’t think you were such a romantic that you’d assume my True Love was a woman I’d known for one day.” He truly did not expect Geralt to go for that sort of fairytale romance. He’s pretty sure he _told_ Geralt one of those stories, with the falling in love at first sight and so forth, and Geralt had spent the next twenty minutes pointing out its logical inconsistencies.

“So maybe,” Geralt adds, nervously, “One of them could break the curse? Someone you’ve known for more than a day?”

Jaskier sighs, looking out into the darkness, wishing he had a better answer. “I don’t think they could. He’s been too important to me, for too long, and I think the curse picked up on that. That mage said the _one_ you love, after all.” He means to keep it at that, but he’s never been good at keeping his mouth shut when it comes to how he feels Geralt, and between that and the curse and the tiredness and the fact that it’s something of a relief to get all this off his chest, he keeps speaking. “I’ll meet someone new, and I’ll fall for them, and I’ll think I’m finally over this stupid, unrequited thing, and then he’ll _have_ to go and do something heroic, or buy me a new strap for my lute after I mentioned, once, in passing, that the one I have is frayed,” _or ask me to talk about a song I’m working on when we both know he knows nothing about music-_ “and I’m back to square one.”

And truly, this time, he means to stop there, but he still hasn’t said it right, still hasn’t put the words to just why it could never be anyone but Geralt, and he needs to explain that, for himself or for Geralt or for the stars he doesn’t know. He loves him, but it’s not just that, it’s- “He’s made a home in my heart, even though he doesn’t know it. He _is_ my home. There have been other people, sure, and I’ve loved them, but- it always comes back to him in the end.” And maybe that’s right and maybe he’s just too drained to say more, but it’s right enough and he’s glad he’s said it.

“He sounds kind.” Geralt says, startling a laugh out of Jaskier. _Of course you pick up on that when you don’t realize we’re talking about you_ , he thinks, tipping his head back so he can smile up at Geralt.

The firelight softens the planes of Geralt’s face, but the fondness in his eyes isn’t a trick of the light, and it would be so, so easy for Jaskier to kiss him.

But he doesn’t.

Things get… blurry… after that. Not immediately, but his head feels strange the next morning, both too light and impossibly heavy. And he’s tired, he just wants to _rest_ , but Geralt won’t let him.

They travel.

Geralt hovers.

He knows the day _happened_ , but it all blurs together, and with the curse pressing at his senses, wrenching the life out of him, it’s hard to concentrate on anything else. It hits a consistent level of twisting, tearing, so intense that he’s shocked he can even draw breath, and then wanes, just long enough for him to remember what it’s like to move somewhat quickly without collapsing immediately, nerves on fire, and then it spikes again.

They travel.

Geralt hovers.

If the pain stays consistent after that second day, the exhaustion only worsens. He’s not simply tired, it feels like the curse is literally draining the life out of him, and as he grows weaker, it grows stronger.

All that would be bad enough if it weren’t on top of the fact that he feels like he’s caught the worst flu of his life, too cold and too warm and nauseous by turns, aching down to his bones.

He knows, if he were alone, he’d have laid down to die by this point, not because he wants to but because he doesn’t think he’d be able to get himself up without Geralt there, not with the aching and the way he feels not hollowed out, but drained, like everything animating him has been siphoned off, left him a shadow of what he was that’s still, slowly, horribly, being siphoned away.

And Geralt- his presence, a hand on his shoulder, an arm around his waist, keeping him warm during the night even though he’s sticky with sweat and there’s no universe in which that can be pleasant- keeps him going. This isn’t going to kill him, because Geralt’s here.

They travel.

Geralt- talks to him?

Jaskier opens a bleary eye, not entirely sure when he’d closed them, or how he’d stayed in the saddle if he’d fallen asleep. The answer to the question is, apparently, that Geralt is now also riding, one arm firmly wrapped around his waist.

Geralt is talking to him, though, which only raises further questions. “… I tried to chain the striga up, but…”

He’s… he’s telling Jaskier about a contract.

With details.

 _Willingly_.

Jaskier’s not certain if he’s thrilled or terrified. “You’re… doin’ this on purpose,” he mumbles.

Or he tries to, anyway; he’s not entirely sure his point gets across, because Geralt only offers him the ‘I am acknowledging that you have spoken’ variety of “Hm.”

“On _purpose_ ,” Jaskier insists. “Tellin’ me things… when I can’t write them down.” It seems like the easiest thing to fixate on, in lieu of being terrified and/or thrilled.

“Then you’re just going to have to stay awake, so you can remember it to write down later,” Geralt says, firmly. In theory, it’s a good idea, in practice, Jaskier’s eyes are already slipping closed again. The world’s blurring out around him, sound and sensation growing distant, but he’s positive he hears Geralt say, “Stay with me,” just at the edge of his hearing.

“We covered this. You’re not getting rid of me.” _I’d stay forever if you’d let me,_ Jaskier tries to tell him, but the words seem to get lost somewhere between his mind and his lips, half of them flickering out, too quiet to be heard, the others curling inward and vanishing unspoken.

He may have lost his own voice, but he keeps hold of Geralt’s, even as the rest fades.

There’s a town. This is important, for some reason, but he can’t-

They stable Roach. Geralt drags him across town, half-supporting, mostly-carrying him, and-

He’s slumped against Geralt in front of somebody’s door and-

Everything’s blurry. Hazy-blurry, like he’s been up all night and he’s trying to stumble through the day with his brain three steps behind and his eyes burning when he tries to open them. He thinks he should probably be worried about all this, but it doesn’t matter. It’s blurry. He’s not part of it.

Geralt’s worried, though, and that worries Jaskier. Geralt shouldn’t be worried.

A woman opens the door. She gives Geralt a look, the look, the ‘agh-get-this-fucking-witcher-away-from-me’ look, and Jaskier would say something but the words won’t line up in his brain, and before he can get them in order he’s stumbling toward her- _what pushed him why is he moving_ \- and Geralt is saying something, and he winds up on a bed at the back of the room knowing he missed several steps as to how he got here.

The woman’s examining him.

 _Right. Curse._ That’s _how he got here_.

She keeps darting glances at Geralt as she does it, like he’s something she scraped off the bottom of her shoe. No, like he’s some sort of flesh-eating mold she scraped off the bottom of her shoe that might eat her flesh if he looks away from it for too long.

The next time she looks back at Jaskier, he sneers at her. His tongue might be too heavy to move but he can sneer with the best of them.

The look she gives _him_ , though, is pitying, and he wants to say- _don’t pity me for being with him, he is the best man you’ll ever meet and it’s your loss for not seeing it_ and _you’re lucky he’s here, what would you do next time there was a monster, otherwise_ , and _how do you not see it, how did you miss that he wouldn’t drag me here if he were a monster_. He winds up slumping against the wall instead, eyes closing without his consent.

He’s going to give her an earful once she lifts this monstrosity.

The longer he sits still like this the more his mind clears. Geralt and the woman have stepped away from him; they’re talking quietly, tense and urgent. They’re talking about him, Jaskier knows, and this annoys him- if they’re talking about him, he should be included in the conversation. _Especially_ given the tense tones- he thinks his planned earful could come in handy. Maybe he should add some choice phrases about ‘robbing the cursed.’

“Meaning?” Geralt asks.

“I could strongarm the curse out of the way if I wanted to, but with the way it’s tangled I have no idea if it would backfire on him, or if I’d just cause more damage ripping it out of him,” the woman replies. “It’s got its claws in too deep. Like I said, there’s a mage in the next village who might know more than me, but…” Silence. Jaskier may be half out of his mind but he knows this silence isn’t good. “I can give you something for the pain.”

And Jaskier _knows_ there’s only one reason she’d say that.

There’s a reality there. Too horrifying to process. For a second his mind goes blank, blank but clear, for the first time in days, as that reality overtakes him, even though he can’t put words to it. He’s frozen. Stranded and alone and unable to breathe.

And then a voice, dry and bitter, says, “So I’m a dead man, then?” It takes Jaskier a moment to realize it’s his own. “Curse didn’t affect my hearing,” he adds, because really, it would have been polite to say that to his face. There’s more he wants to say, but whatever clarity his terror had lent him is quickly fading, the fog of the curse creeping back in-

“No,” Geralt says, “You’re not.”

Jaskier has to appreciate Geralt’s faith in his not-dying abilities.

With that, Geralt scoops him up in a bridal carry and starts walking. It is unfortunate, Jaskier muses, that he’s getting the exact thing he’s fantasized about for years now and he’s too busy dying to properly appreciate it.

That’s what tips him over the edge, the fact that he likely won’t live to see another sunrise, another moment to himself to moon over Geralt, much less another moment of Geralt carrying him like this. He won’t live to see anything more, and he desperately wants more, more time, there’s so much that he hasn’t done, hasn’t seen, hasn’t lived, a thousand early mornings and boring campfires and half-smiles across crowded rooms and crowds that are never quite as appreciative as you want them to be-

He would cry, he thinks, but he’s too weak to do even that, and instead the grief just sits in his chest and burns his eyes.

“The next town, you said?” Geralt asks. The final nail in his coffin- he can _feel_ the way the curse is crushing his chest, a parasite that’s nested in there to drain him down to nothing, the way his thoughts slip away from him and scatter no matter what he tries. He’s not going to make it to the next _crossroads_ , much less the next town.

“Let me at least- There’s an inn at the other end of town, the rooms are cheap,” the woman says, voice tight. “Come back tomorrow. I’ll see what I can do to buy you some time.”

Going off of her earlier treatment of Geralt, Jaskier doesn’t trust her not to poison him and have done with it.

He starts to say as much, but his gaze focuses on one of the studs in Geralt’s armor, so close to him; Geralt’s holding him so close, so gently-

There is, he realizes, something that could fix him.

“Let’s do that,” he says. He’s met with a wave of guilt the second the words are out of his mouth, but he presses on. “Please? I’m tired.” The fact that he’s obscuring the truth makes him feel even more guilty, but he’s not going to drop the real reason he wants some privacy and space into Geralt’s lap like a cat bringing its owner a dead rat, not without thinking what he’s going to say over first, and certainly not with this woman in the room.

She gives him another pitying look as Geralt carries him from the house. He glares right back.

The haziness in his mind worsens as Geralt carries him across town to the inn, clearing only slightly when Geralt deposits him on a thin mattress with an order to rest.

Geralt moves to leave the room. The haze creeps back, quicker now, and Jaskier knows with a sudden, chilling certainty that if Geralt leaves, he won’t get another chance to say anything.

His arm feels like it’s made of lead, but it moves of its own accord, reaching out and grabbing the hem of Geralt’s shirt. “Geralt,” he says, “I-” He tries to sit up, but he’s can’t do more than push himself slightly off the bed.

And Geralt is there, sitting on the edge of the bed, moving the pillow so that it’s more comfortably supporting Jaskier’s head and pulling the blankets a bit tighter, making little soothing noises under his breath. For a second- two- just long enough to give him strength for what comes next, Jaskier lets himself savor it. “Just- lie back,” Geralt says, easing Jaskier back onto the bed, “Get some rest. You’re going to be fine.”

“I’ll tell you who my love is.” There. He’s said it. No going back now. “But,” he adds, and this is the tricky part, this is the part he needs to make Geralt understand. He locks one hand in Geralt’s shirt and manages to pull himself somewhat upright, so he’s at least putting on a show of strength, looking Geralt in the eyes. He needs Geralt to see how serious he is. “You have to promise me something first.”

“Anything,” Geralt sounds desperate, enough that Jaskier almost backs down, newly afraid of what confessing will do to Geralt if this doesn’t work. At the same time, though, he needs to say something; if Geralt is that desperate for an answer, Jaskier will offer the only answer he has.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Jaskier says, with a laugh, the sound wrong to his own ears. “From beyond the godsdamned grave, I will hold you to that, see if I won’t.” He’s losing his grip on Geralt’s shirt, but Geralt slips an arm around his shoulders, supporting him, and that gesture gives him the strength to keep speaking. “Promise me,” he says, pausing to make sure Geralt understands, “You won’t blame him.” Geralt looks lost. “I mean it. I’ll tell you who I’m in love with, but when it doesn’t work, when his kiss doesn’t fix me-” He pauses again, this time to calm himself. Saying it aloud has made it real. Then Geralt’s pulling him closer, reminding him what, exactly, he stands to lose, reminding him that there’s a chance, slim but here, holding him- “Don’t blame him. It’s not his fault he doesn’t feel for me the way I feel for him.

“And I know you’re going to-” Jaskier realizes, too late, that he’s making an impossible request. If he knows anyone in this world, he knows Geralt, and he knows that there’s nothing he can say to stop Geralt from blaming himself. With a buzzing terror that manages to push through the haze, he tries instead, “You know what, never mind, forget it. Just promise me- Promise me you’ll remember-” He tries to pull himself closer to Geralt, but Geralt’s the one who actually sits him upright, supporting most of his weight. “Remember that _I_ don’t blame him,” Jaskier says, leaning his forehead against Geralt’s. “This is not his fault. I wouldn’t have fallen in love with him if he weren’t a good man.” All he can hope is that when he’s gone, Geralt will remember this, the sincerity and love Jaskier tries to infuse into every word he speaks, and know that no matter how much he blames himself, Jaskier didn’t. Jaskier loved him. Jaskier knew he was a good man. Maybe that will offer him some comfort.

“Tell me, then,” Geralt says, “Maybe he- maybe you’re wrong, maybe he does feel the same way.” The dramatic irony is too much for Jaskier not to laugh, even if his laughter does immediately turn into coughs that feel like they’re ripping out the inner surface of his lungs. “Why wouldn’t he,” Geralt adds, “You’re- good.”

Coming from anyone else, that would sound halfhearted at best, coming from Geralt, it sounds endearingly awkward and genuine. No part of that stops Jaskier from wanting to tease Geralt, so he whispers, “Flatterer,” even as he sags into Geralt’s arms, whatever burst of determination that had fueled this little speech leaving him. Even his eyelids feel too heavy. He’s tired. The curse has siphoned off too much of him, he doesn’t have the energy to keep what’s left of him going. He needs to rest. Just for a minute. The pain builds but he’s too far gone to notice.

“Jaskier.” Geralt sounds worried. “I need a name.” Geralt shouldn’t be worried. “I won’t blame him.” _Oh, good. I can rest easy now._ “Jaskier?”

It takes all the strength he has, but he manages to pry his eyes open, and when he does Geralt is there, holding him. _He’s you_ , he tells Geralt, _Of course_ “’s you.” _I’ve loved you_ “Love, since- always,” _since you gave me a coin you couldn’t afford to spare_. He smiles apologetically, knowing that wasn’t what Geralt wanted to hear, afraid he’s only made everything more hopeless and complicated. “Sorry.”

“No.” Geralt sounds like he’s about to cry, and no, that’s wrong, he shouldn’t be crying. “You’re not dying on me, damn you, just give me his _name_.”

 _I did, though. I told you, and you didn’t even-_ “Kiss me,” Jaskier asks, or begs, really, “Please. Wouldn’t ask if I weren’t-” -and Geralt’s still just staring at him, unmoving, and Jaskier begins to wonder if he’s not kissing him for a reason, if he wants Jaskier gone, if that’s why he won’t- “Please, please just try, I can’t-” - _can’t lose you can’t lose this can’t die like this-_ “Kiss me.”

And Geralt presses a soft kiss to his forehead.

The curse breaks.

No, the curse _shatters,_ the crushing, tearing vise that had wrapped around his chest falling away from him in tiny shards. His mind clears, in the same moment, and his first thought is _Oh sweet gods what have I been saying._ He’s still bone-deep exhausted, and aching in places that rightfully shouldn’t be able to ache, but the curse is _gone_.

“There,” Geralt says, gruff and warm and soft, almost loving, “See? You’re alright now.”

Geralt kissed him.

Geralt kissed him, and broke the curse.

Geralt _loves_ him.

Jaskier beams up at him, thinking _I love you_ and _this is possibly the best moment of my life, the best thing I have ever felt_ and _I want to remember this forever_ and _you saved me_ , and he tries to say all of that in the best way he can, which turns out to be, “I am going to write a brilliant song about this.”

He means to say more, but there’s a rush of energy pouring through him, like the feeling of waking up after a good night’s sleep, distilled and mixed with several thousand cups of coffee, and the aching gets more intense and eases simultaneously; there’s a roaring in his ears and then the world goes black.

There’s a brief moment, as he’s blinking back awake, where he’s only aware of the feeling that he’s just finished the best sleep of his life, and that he’s wonderfully happy. Something _good_ happened before he fell asleep, something wonderful, and now he’s-

Lying on a cheap mattress in an inn in gods-only-know-where, feeling better than he did prior to being cursed, with Geralt leaning over him, his lips pressed against Jaskier’s.

 _Huh,_ he thinks, somewhat distantly. _Did the curse need two kisses to break, or-_

It’s only then that his memories fully catch up to him- the kiss, the curse breaking, _Geralt loves him_ \- and he gasps a little in delight and deepens the kiss, using one arm to shove himself as close to Geralt as he’s able. He cups Geralt’s cheek in his other hand, delicately, savoring both the contact and the trust inherent in the gesture, the way Geralt leans minutely into his palm. It’s like a breath of fresh air after drowning, a first meal after summers of fasting. Geralt wraps one arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, cradling him as tenderly as though he were something indescribably precious and fragile, and Jaskier takes the opportunity to drag the two of them closer together, high on his own relief and surprise and joy, forgetting anything resembling finesse in favor of giddily making up for lost time. There’s nothing he’d rather do with the life that’s been returned to him.

Eventually, Jaskier pulls away, leaning back against Geralt’s arm so he can take in every detail of his darling witcher’s face and revel in the fact that he’s alive and Geralt’s holding him like he’s something precious and Geralt _loves him back_. There’s an obvious, uncontrollable smile on his face, one he’d never be able to hide, one that only intensifies once he remembers he doesn’t have to. Geralt knows. Geralt loves him.

Slowly, cautiously, Geralt offers a return smile, shy and hopeful and lovely. For a brief moment he’s let his walls down, let Jaskier in, and Jaskier is a little in awe of the love he finds there.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, savoring the taste of Geralt’s name on his lips, “You-” he stops himself, suddenly all-too-aware of the fact that he’s slumped against Geralt almost exactly as he’d been while literally dying, not to mention the fact that his hair’s snarled all to hell. He absolutely refuses to attempt a romantic speech in this condition, so he sits up, nearly knocking Geralt over.

Which is problem one solved. Unfortunately, problem two is going to take a lot more effort to fix, and Jaskier doesn’t want to waste another second. As soon as Geralt finishes nearly falling off the bed, sitting down on the side of it instead, Jaskier climbs into his lap, straddling his hips. He embraces Geralt, burying his face in the crook of his neck. “You saved me,” he says, unsure of what else to say. He’s grateful to be alive but ‘thank you’ sounds wrong; he’s not about to thank Geralt for loving him. As much as he wants to tell Geralt he loves him, he doesn’t want to imply that he loves Geralt _because_ he saved his life.

And then there’s the enormity of those two things in tandem. Geralt loves him. Geralt saved him. Geralt loved him enough to save his life, and what can Jaskier even say to that? “I don’t- there’s not even words for- you _saved me_ ,” he tries. Geralt puts an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, with a hesitance that suggests he still expects Jaskier to shatter at any moment, and Jaskier pulls him even closer. He may not be sure what to say, but in this case, he may have to admit that actions make for a better alternative.

The tension bleeds away from Geralt’s shoulders, achingly slow, the longer Jaskier holds him. After a moment or two, he wraps his arm a little more securely around Jaskier. “The curse is broken?” he asks, in a low voice, “You’re sure it hasn’t just weakened?”

“You could always kiss me again, to be safe,” Jaskier replies, aiming for both reassurance and flirtation. He’s not sure he achieves either, mostly because he’s running the risk of spontaneously combusting over the fact that flirting with Geralt has suddenly become a realistic possibility.

Every single bit of tension that had left Geralt comes back to him all at once. “We should get moving, in that case,” he says, attempting to pick Jaskier up and stand. “If you’re feeling well enough to-”

 _Shit_ , Jaskier thinks, recalculating his plans in terms of “flirtation” and “timing, as related to near death experiences.”

“Geralt,” he says, before he can worry his poor witcher any further. He tries to keep his voice warm and calm, even as he has to contort himself a bit to keep Geralt from picking him up. He knows he’d achieve this goal much more easily were he to, say, stand up, or even lean away from Geralt a little, but he _will not_ put any distance between himself and Geralt until he absolutely has to, and that is non-negotiable. “It’s alright. I was joking. I’m curse-free, absolutely perfect,” he adds, hoping Geralt will find further detail comforting, “I felt it break when you kissed me, which, I’ll have you know, felt _extremely fucking bizarre_. But I’d very much like to kiss you again, without a curse hanging over our heads.”

Instead of obliging, or, hell, even asking for details of what the curse removal was like, Geralt freezes.

Jaskier freezes as well, suddenly confronted with several other, more unexpected possibilities for Geralt’s behavior- that he doesn’t want to jump straight from a kiss to a relationship, that he doesn’t want a relationship at all, that he only realized his feelings when the kiss worked and he needs time to process-

With an unexpected cloud of fear- _he didn’t want this you’re pushing your feelings on him you were right all along, he doesn’t feel the same way_ \- looming over him, Jaskier adds, gently, “But we don’t have to do anything about this if you don’t want to.” _Maybe he does want to, but you startled him,_ the more optimistic part of Jaskier pipes up. _You’re enthusiastic. It’s totally possible._

Thus reassured, Jaskier adds, “Or if you need time,” setting his hand over Geralt’s in what he hopes is a comforting gesture- an invitation, but only if Geralt wants to accept it. “I’m here, though. If you’ll have me.” Saying it aloud is nowhere near as daunting as he’d previously feared. He’s just acknowledging what’s already there, putting into words what might one day be something more.

Geralt doesn’t respond. He is, in fact, distressingly silent, staring blankly at the center of Jaskier’s chest for long enough that Jaskier begins to think that he’s misjudged this situation entirely. He stands, giving Geralt’s hand a little squeeze. “Or,” he says, “We could forget this whole thing ever happened.” He barely even has to force cheer into his voice; he’s still alive and he has tangible proof that Geralt cares for him just as deeply, if not just as romantically, as he does, and that outcome is worlds and lifetimes better than anything he’d expected. “Which I’m definitely in favor of, that was a singularly unpleasant experience-” He takes a step backwards, away from the bed, half-planning to change out of these clothes, burn them, and then eat everything in this inn- how long has it _been_ since he’s eaten-

“Jaskier.” Geralt sounds like speaking that one word took more effort than fighting a whole army of ghouls, and Geralt’s hand is on his wrist, in a loose grip that Jaskier could slip out of without even thinking. He looks over at Geralt, a cautious hope growing in his chest, only to find Geralt mirroring his own expression, hopeful, almost shy. “What about your lover?”

Jaskier’s first thought is, _Oh was that all it was_ , which is probably unfair. He wouldn’t want Geralt to think he’d take this relationship for granted, but it’s such a relief that Geralt had been worried about something so easily fixed, and Jaskier’s quick to reassure him, “I wouldn’t take any other lovers, if we were together.” After a moment’s thought, with the sneaking suspicion that he should be as upfront as possible right now or risk this conversation continuing ad infinitum, he adds, “Not unless we’d talked about it first and we both agreed.”

“No, your lover!” Geralt says, voice cracking. As Jaskier scrambles to figure out who the hell he could be talking about, who the _hell_ even fits that description, and wasn’t ruled out by recent events, not to mention the conversation that is currently occurring, Geralt adds, “The man you’ve been raving about for the past four days?”

Which is… concerning.

To say the least.

Unless Jaskier’s lost time, or the curse controlled him somehow and wiped his mind of it, the only man he’s been ‘raving’ about is currently sitting in front of him.

Which means something must be wrong with Geralt, for him to have- forgotten who he is? Did the curse backfire somehow? He doesn’t look ill, or injured, but he’s spouting utter nonsense with genuine anguish in his eyes and-

Jaskier doesn’t know what to do if he’s hurt. 

“You mean… yourself? Geralt, are you alright?” Jaskier asks, trying his best to sound soothing and landing squarely in ‘confused’ and ‘worried’ instead.

“Why would I-” Jaskier doesn’t know if it makes the whole situation more or less worrisome that Geralt sounds equally confused. “-you were talking about a man, who you’ve been in love with for years, you said he was noble and heroic and kind-”

Jaskier takes a brief moment to be entirely dumbfounded, even as that particular display of obliviousness makes him fall for Geralt a little more, before saying, “Yeah, I was, Geralt. _You_.”

The realization dawning across Geralt’s face, like a winter sunrise on a clear day, may be the most beautiful thing Jaskier’s ever witnessed. “You were talking about me,” he says, slowly. Jaskier nods. “You said you met him in a tavern- you _were_ talking about me!” Jaskier nods again, fighting back a laugh at Geralt’s _shock_ at a conclusion that’s… fairly obvious, in retrospect.

“You called me a good man. And kind,” Geralt says, causing Jaskier’s heart to immediately plummet at the way he sounds more confused by that statement than anything else.

“Which you _are_ ,” he says, with all the love he’s spent years burying. He reaches out to run a hand through Geralt’s hair as a reassurance, but stops, his hand hanging awkwardly in the air, not sure if the gesture would be welcome or helpful. “I’d have called you that even if I weren’t hopelessly in love with you.”

“But that’s where you’re wrong.”

Jaskier glares at him. “You are! Don’t-”

“Not that.” Geralt tugs a little on his wrist. There’s not enough force behind the motion to justify the way Jaskier stumbles forward; that has everything to do with Jaskier’s eagerness to be close to him. Even so, he’s fully prepared to take this- whatever it is- slow, as slow as Geralt needs them to go, and then Geralt’s grabbing him by his shirt, pulling him in close, and their lips crash together with just as much urgency as if Geralt needed to kiss Jaskier, right now, to save his own life. Jaskier melts into the kiss immediately, a thousand thoughts fading away to a quiet, content, _Oh._

“It wasn’t hopeless,” Geralt says, his lips brushing against Jaskier’s as he speaks, before pulling him into another kiss, one fueled by enough desire to drive away any remaining fear that Jaskier was misinterpreting his feelings.

With that squared away, and his heart singing a song far too sappy to perform in public, even for him, Jaskier throws himself back into Geralt’s lap. He pushes the hair back from Geralt’s face, a quiet thrill going through him at the intimacy of it, the softness of Geralt’s hair, the way he closes his eyes with a pleased hum.

Wanting to treat Geralt tenderly, because he deserves that, deserves sweetness in his life, he presses a series of kisses across Geralt’s jaw, then down his neck, before returning to kiss him once more on the lips. He’s smiling so widely it’s making it hard to do any proper kissing, but he can’t help himself from doing so, any more than he can help but whisper, “I love you.” In fact, he might never be able to stop saying it.

To Jaskier’s delight, the words seem to make Geralt _more_ sure of himself; with a questioning look to Jaskier, he starts undoing the few buttons on Jaskier’s chemise that have somehow managed to stay in place. Jaskier immediately returns the favor, pulling at the hem of Geralt’s shirt in a way that promises to get the two of them caught in each other’s clothing somehow. 

He couldn’t care less.

“I love you too,” Geralt says, sending a thrill through Jaskier at the sincerity of those words, at the meaning behind them, an answering _yes, I’ll have you_. He pulls Geralt down into the bed, Geralt leaning over him, that same love obvious in every line of his face.

It would be very easy for Jaskier to kiss him right now.

So he does.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [tumblr](https://just-j-really.tumblr.com), it's mostly Witcher content right now but who knows what it'll be tomorrow.
> 
> Title from "Fair" by The Amazing Devil (again).
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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